Save the Nighttime For Your Weeping
by Duchess Winna
Summary: Losing everything is surprisingly easy for her tonight. Circe, after the fire at Spence. One-shot.


_at night they would go walking_

The night of the fire, Sarah walks away. She lets her feet carry her away, far away from sin and heartbreak and lost friends, from death and ruin and blood. She embraces the darkness around her and in the surrounding emptiness can let herself believe, even if only for a moment, that this is a normal night.

But it can never be for longer than a moment, for the darkness is not just outside of her; it is inside as well. There was darkness that possessed her, and she cannot find the strength inside of her to be free of it. Instead, she embraces it, caresses it, lets it be her guiding light. It is all she has now.

Sarah walks, away from Spence and away from her sorrow. She leaves it all behind her as her bare feet tread the grass, all of the world ahead of her.

She could look at this as an ending, and in some ways she does. Her childhood is over forever now; though she can hardly remember a time when she was truly innocent, all the last vestiges of it are gone, and there is no going back. She does not grieve over it; knowledge is always better than naiveté, she tells herself.

The crescent moon is too bright, its light far too silvery. Although it does not cast much light, what it does illuminate is pure and gentle. It is beautiful in such a wholesome way that it seems wrong, on this night. Sarah raises her eyes toward it, and when she looks down, she sees blood underneath her fingernails. Already the events of the night have become so distant to her that it is amazing, fascinating, to see the reddish-brown stains. Equally surprising is the disarray of her dress; she thinks that in her old world, if seen in such a fashion, she would be at least a little ashamed, her reputation ruined. Now, in her new world, it will hardly matter to her.

It doesn't dawn on her why that it is until much later. Before, she had everything to lose. Now, she has nothing.

Losing everything is surprisingly easy to her tonight, far easier than she would have expected. In the morning she will grieve, but tonight she is free.

Sarah walks away from her old identity, ready to shape a new one for herself, but not yet. Just for tonight, she walks, calm and sure, under the light of the crescent moon.

-

_till the breaking of the day_

She stops several miles away from Spence, her legs weary and her mind slowly losing its calm. The events of the night have begun to push at her mind, forcing her to her knees. She runs her hands through her messy hair, and she begins to comprehend her situation. She remembers Carolina's death and Mary's betrayal. She relaxes upon the grass, the light illuminating her body, and begins to formulate a plan.

Part of her is aching for revenge upon Mary, urged on by the darkness inside of her, but she already feels pain like a thousand knives skimming off her skin, and she knows that if Mary dies, it will all be intensified. She will not return for Mary, nor will she return to her life in society. This is all she has now: no magic, no ambitions, nothing. And while during the night, this held joy for her, now she feels only an empty kind of melancholy. It hurts, and yet she feels that it should hurt more.

She lies down on the grass, the sunlight beating upon her, and lets it warm her skin, banish the cold. She wishes that the pain could be vanished so quickly.

She lets her mind wander, wondering how her parents will react, how her toddler brother will react, how Mary will. She hopes that, if Mary indeed believes her to be dead, she will grieve profusely. She imagines the light reaching Spence, with all of the girls filing towards chapel, with the ashes of the East Wing still smoldering on the ground.

-

_the morning is for sleeping_

This is the pattern that she falls into for the next two days: during the nights she wanders aimlessly, like one of the gypsies that live outside of Spence. Sometimes she wonders – hopes – that they will find her here, but they never do. She both craves and fears some kind of connection to who she used to be; she yearns to find someone who might recognize her, and she dreads it. During the day she sleeps.

She finds a creek that she drinks from, but after two days her stomach has started to feel separate from her and she feels weak and pained. She makes her way back to Spence, forcing each step.

She doesn't let herself look too closely at any of it, and she hides from sight until she sees a carriage parked there, dropping off one of the girls who must have gone home previously and had just returned now. She immediately accosts the driver before he leaves, explaining that she was a servant who had been caught in the fire, and desperately needs assistance, requesting a ride to London. She promises to pay him later, although she runs as soon as he lets her out.

By now she has formulated a plan. There are vagrants in London, and she is drawn to them, her fellows who have lost everything as well. They submerge themselves in drugs, in alcohol, while she lets the dark connection within her provide the escapism that all lost souls need. She settles amongst some of them; while before her ragged dress and dirty hair would have made her stand out, now they allow her to fit in.

In this underworld, she steals for a living and resides in an abandoned carriage with two girls and four boys, all around her own age. One of the girls is heavily pregnant, and Sarah almost finds herself wondering how all of these young people have fallen so far, if they too had friends that betrayed them and if any of them had committed a crime worse than stealing. But she realizes that if she asks them, she might start to care about them – and above all things, she is terrified of that.

They accept her without questions, and she is grateful to them. She tells them her name is Circe, wondering if there will be any reaction from them, but they all shrug and nod. It occurs to her belatedly that none of them have ever read, or likely even heard about, The Odyssey.

Still, she feels remarkably at home here, settling in all too comfortably to this life of theft and crime. These people do not pretend to have moral aversions to theft and other petty crimes, and she finds that refreshing. It means that she can be herself with them, and that is a comfort; she doesn't think she could hide her true nature right now even if she could. She cannot deny that she is drawn to the darkness, though now it is no longer a choice.

After a week or so, she begins to talk and listen to them; they talk among themselves sometimes, and Sarah learns things about them, answers to the questions she didn't ask: that girl, Tessie, is pregnant with the child of a naval officer and he had left her. Tessie is the only one in their carriage that is not an addict of some kind: Peter, Andrew, Owen and Cecilia are all alcoholics, while Owen dabbles in cocaine as well. Henry is an opium addict.

Sarah finds herself most drawn to Andrew, who is the oldest at nineteen. He had once worked in a store which had provided housing for him and Tessie, his sister, but after he had gotten in an affair with the shopkeeper's daughter, both had been thrown to the streets.

None of this can ever be home to her, since she cannot consider the idea of obtaining a second home now. She has no desire for one, and this residence is enough.

-

_through the dark streets they go searching_

After two weeks, Sarah has settled into the rhythm of the lives of these vagrants. She is quiet and withdrawn, all happiness or sadness stunted. She does not think that she will ever feel true emotion again, unless it relates to Mary or the Realms or Spence. That is her true life, even if it is lost to her; this is just a shadow of it.

One night she and Andrew are out patrolling the streets for lost baubles or anything else that might bring in a slight profit. There is a strictly self-benefiting system amongst them: anything that one of them finds is theirs alone, though Sarah sometimes sees Andrew and the others give Tessie some of their food. There is no room for compassion in this lifestyle, but sometimes some leaks through.

"Is that something?" Sarah asks, pointing at something. She investigates before Andrew can beat her to it.

It turns out to be nothing, and, disappointed, she turns towards him and continues to walk. There has been silence between them all of the night, but he surprises her by speaking now. "Where are you from?" he asks abruptly.

She had anticipated this question, and she has an answer prepared. "I was a maid, at a fancy school," she says, "but the school fired me because they were low on money."

He nods, and she thinks that's the end of it, but after a moment he speaks again. "My dad, he was a rich man," he says, shooting her a sidelong glance. "Is," he corrects himself after a moment.

Neither Andrew nor Tessie had ever spoken about their familial background before in Sarah's earshot, and despite herself she is curious. "Then why are you here?" Bluntness is appreciated between them; none of them feel the need to sugarcoat their words.

He shrugs. He could be bitter, but there is no room for it if he is to survive. He accepts what life has given him, and doesn't fight against it; he finds his solace in alcohol. "My mother was a prostitute."

She nods. "Oh."

"Is this hard for you? I mean, you must have been used to a lot better than this," he says. He makes no apologies for their way of life, but his concern does touch her, even though she hates herself for being moved by it.

"Yes. But it's not as hard as I would have thought," she says honestly.

There is silence again for a moment. There is a light on in a window above them, and Sarah can see the planes of Andrew's face. Despite his slightly thin appearance, he is handsome, and he doesn't think that she is a lady. She touches his arm lightly and when he looks at her, she kisses him.

He takes her arm and leads her to an alleyway. There, he begins to kiss her slowly, sensually. It is not the first time she has been kissed, but it is the first time that she has wanted it so badly. She feels the emptiness begin to fall away a little, and she realizes that the life inside of her has been reviving ever since she found a temporary place to stay here with these people who are just like her. She lets the emotion fill her, until she is so full that she could cry out.

-

_to see God in their own way_

It has been a month, and now Tessie is having her baby. Sarah doesn't know what to do, but Cecilia barks instructions at all of them. For a girl who Sarah had always assumed to be withdrawn, just as she, Sarah, appeared to be with these people, it appears Cecilia knows how to assume responsibility when the time calls for it. Sarah thinks that she could have been a general in another life, given the opportunity.

Sarah follows Cecilia's orders, setting up the room the way the other girl dictated. She lets Cecilia act as midwife as Andrew stood beside his sister, holding her hand. The other boys wait outside, and after hearing Tessie's cries of pain, Sarah has no choice but to join them. Cecilia shoots her an angry look, as if she is betraying her gender by leaving, but Sarah can't handle the shrieks of the girl that she had tentatively begun to label as her friend.

That realization sends a shudder of dread through her; she had vowed never to have another friend. Friends had too much power to hurt her, and she, Sarah, would never be hurt again.

Still, she waits outside. Owen has a bottle of rum that he has diluted with some other substance, and he offers her some. She takes it; though she doesn't find the thrill of escapism from it that the others do, she doesn't mind it. It is part of the culture of this new lifestyle that she has immersed herself in.

It surprises her when Andrew comes outside. There is no outright affection between them, but Sarah appreciates that. There are traces of tenderness, though, and that worries her. He touches her arm lightly in an example of that very thing.

"Tessie really could use you in there," he tells her, the suggestion clear in his tone.

"No," she says flatly.

He studies her, trying to find the best persuasive technique. "Are you afraid?" he asks, settling for a taunt.

He has read her well; this kind of challenge has always hooked her in the past, and it does so now. With a slight glare, she marches into the carriage and prepares to follow Cecilia's orders, forcing her stomach not to churn and toss up last evenings' supper.

When the baby finally comes in a hurricane of blood and slime that Cecilia hastily cleans off, Sarah holds it after Tessie hands her away.

Cecilia sits beside her, stroking Tessie's hair gently. The other boys have filed into the room, and they too crowd around Tessie, shifting their gaze between her and the baby, marveling at the newborn child despite themselves. Sarah sees clearly for the first time the bond between them – a bond that she does not fit into.

_But I could,_ she tells herself. She glances at the child in her arms, wondering if she wants to. The child's face, so young and innocent, seems to hold all the answers to all the questions in the world. For the first time, Sarah almost forgets about Spence and the fire and Mary and Carolina.

She crouches beside Tessie. There is not much room in the carriage for anyone after they hauled the bed in, but they all squeeze in, at least for now. "What's her name?" Sarah asks the new mother, who is beginning to fall asleep.

"Mary," Tessie whispers, half-asleep already.

Sarah hastily hands the baby to Owen, then excuses herself, claiming that she is beginning to feel clustered. She hurries to the outside of the carriage, and crouches beside it, breathing hard.

She feels Andrew's presence beside her. He sits next to her, in silence for a while.

"Circe, who was Mary?" he asks finally. His intuitiveness is a quality that she had initially overlooked, but it is painfully clear to her now.

Sarah thinks about lying, but doesn't see a point to it. "My best friend," she whispers. It hurts her throat to say it. A rush of emotion speeds through her, sadness that cuts her like knives.

"What happened to her?"

Sarah lets her eyes look anywhere but at Andrew, because about this she will not tell the truth. "She died," she says, because it's easier.

Andrew tentatively reaches his arm around her. This has been a day for all of them to loosen themselves and begin to show that they care, and Sarah knows now that she cannot stay here. Still, she lets him hold her, lets him lead her away, lets him make love to her for the last time.

As they both go back to the carriage, Andrew studies her. "You're leaving, aren't you?" There is no bitterness or judgment in his question, but there are traces of sadness.

"No," she lies smoothly.

He makes a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. "You can at least tell me the truth," he says shortly. She says nothing, and his expression softens slightly as they reach the outside of the carriage. Both of them stop outside it.

"I want you to stay," he says. He is naturally taciturn, and she can see that it is difficult to speak the words, but he means them. "I – we –"

She can't listen to any more. "I know," she says, meeting his bright turquoise eyes. "But I have to go."

He nods; she doesn't know if he actually understands, but at least he is trying. "Will you come back?"

"Yes, as soon as I have it all straightened out," she lies. She can't tell if he believes her or not, but he pretends to. He kisses her before they enter the carriage, and there is no doubt that it is a kiss of farewell.

As she gathers her things in the dark of the night, she ponders these people that she has spent the past month with. She came here to escape all the bonds of friendship and caring that had entrapped her before, caused her so much pain, and now she realizes that not only do they exist between the vagrants themselves, but she has begun to feel things for these people. She has begun to think of them as friends, and she cannot let herself fall into the same trap again.

That night she steals away, touching Andrew's forehead in farewell and kissing the top of the baby's head and looking at them all to take them in so she can remember them even though she will never see them again. She leaves, closing the door behind her, and she walks away.

-

_save the nighttime for your weeping_

That night is the hardest for her. She runs far away until she reaches the Thames river, and crouches beside it. She cries, long and hard. She cries for the people she has left behind, both the vagrants and her friends at Spence. She cries since she will never go into the Realms again, that she will never be able to see the garden or the Winterlands, both beautiful in their own way. She cries since she will never be able to be friends with Mary again, to talk long into the night about philosophy and politics and the latest gossip. She cries since she has left behind Andrew and Tessie and the baby and the others, whom she hadn't realized she cared about until today.

She cries for her parents, who don't love her and never have. She cries for her toddler brother, who will think that she is dead. She cries because he will never know otherwise, and she does not love any of them enough to tell them the truth. She has no desire to speak to them or even to see them, for they care nothing for her, but for some reason it still hurts.

In the midst of her despair, she feels something tugging at a connection inside of her: the darkness, if possible, is beginning to speak to her. Not in actual words, not yet, but she can sense emotions, then concepts. It is offering her something, and for the first time she lets it not just fill her but consume her. She cannot live a normal life, she sees that now. There is no choice for her but this.

She opens herself fully to the darkness, and it courses into her.

She lets it speak to her, lets it promise her things. It tells her that the Realms will open again, that some girl, somewhere, will be the key to opening them. It tells her that when they do open, she will be a queen there. It tells her that she must use her learning and her skills to secure positions as governesses or teachers in order to find this girl, and use her before the Order gets to her, for the Order is not dead, not yet.

As the darkness consumes her, creeping under her skin and into her blood and towards her heart, she forgets the angelic look of Tessie's baby, the way Andrew's kisses felt on her lips, Mary's carefree laugh. She closes her mind to it and chooses the darkness instead, the darkness that brings sustenance and relief and a strange kind of euphoria.

The darkness speaks to her, and she listens.

* * *

**Author's Note: Libba Bray owns these characters; I do not. The lyrics (italicized) are from Coldplay's _Cemeteries of London_. I think that's it for credits...please review!**


End file.
